Читать книгу Fog Island - Mariette Lindstein - Страница 6

Prologue

She has been lying awake in the dark for ages, marking the time by counting her breaths. One breath in takes three seconds. One breath out, another three. Seconds become minutes. And soon, an hour.

The darkness is dense. There are no shadows, outlines, no numbers on a clock radio. She feels weightless lying there, as if she’s floating. But the counting keeps her awake, and anyway, she is far too tense to fall asleep now. Doubt gnaws in the back of her mind. The fear of failure makes her nerves whine like the strings on an untuned violin as a blurry veil of anxiety settles over all her thoughts. Best just to breathe, not think, just be until the right moment.

She hears a faint tapping against the window; it grows into a persistent patter. Rain, despite the forecast. She curses the weather service and thinks about how hard it will be to run through the forest.

Then it’s time. She cautiously slides out from under the blanket and kneels on the floor. Her hands fumble under the bed, finding the bundle of her backpack. It contains everything she needs — and yet, almost nothing. Her tennis shoes are there too, the kind you just stick your feet into, no time for tying shoes. She carefully pulls on her jacket, which had been wrapped around the backpack, and puts on the shoes. Tiny, cautious steps across the floor. Her body feels dreamlike and heavy.

There’s a murmur from one of the beds and she stiffens. Someone turns over, making bedsprings creak. She waits until she hears deep breathing again. The last few steps. She fumbles for the door handle and finds it. A gust of cool air rushes in from the corridor as the door swings open. The night-time lighting paints the white walls a pale yellow. It feels like she’s gliding down the hallway. She pushes open the heavy iron door to the basement stairs, where the main breaker is. This is it. Sink or swim. She only has ten minutes, fifteen at the most. After that they’ll notice she’s missing. She knows the routines all too well. Once the first wave of confusion has settled down, they will gather and count the personnel. Then the manhunt will begin.

I am not afraid, I am not afraid.

She repeats the words silently to herself, like a mantra, and takes a couple of deep breaths. She can still change her mind. Turn around. Crawl back into her warm bed. But if she doesn’t escape now, she never will, and that thought is so unbearable that it blows the spark of her courage back into a flame.

As she pulls down the handle of the breaker, there’s a snap and a crackle and suddenly it is so dark that she feels dizzy and sways a bit in the black void. She grabs the wall, feels her way to the emergency exit, and opens the door. Cold, humid air hits her. The rain falls over the courtyard like a thick curtain; it has already drenched the grass, which eagerly sucks at her foot.

She splashes through puddles at a run, completely vulnerable to chance now. If her luck runs out, someone will spot her from the window of the manor house. But nothing happens. All she can hear is the drumming of the rain against the roof, the water pouring out of the drainpipes, and her own thudding steps.

The ladder is leaning against the wall. Thank God.

She has to make it over quickly, because soon the backup generator will be turned on, the courtyard will be bathed in light, and the barbed wire at the top of the wall will be capable of delivering a serious shock.

She climbs up the ladder, fumbles for a foothold between the razor-sharp barbs of the electric wire, and stands up on the slippery wall.

This is the moment she has been dreaming of, with longing and terror both. Down there, on the other side, there is no return. A burst of exhilaration runs through her mind, but then the fear grabs hold of her again.

She tosses her backpack down first, then jumps with all her might. Over the barbed wire, away from the danger behind her, into the darkness. Pain shoots through her foot when she lands. She brushes her hand over it and the pain abates. Her eyes search for the head of the path. And find it. She runs down it like a madwoman. Sometimes she misses a turn and almost darts into a bush, but she always makes it back to the path. She is riding high on adrenaline now. Forward. Forward is all that matters.

I am not afraid, I am not afraid.

She tries to make out the terrain, jumping over winding roots and rocks that criss-cross the narrow path. Her heart is pounding, her chest burning. The alarm begins to sound at the manor, behind her. The sweeping beam of the searchlight glints off the leaves. Things are going to get chaotic for a while. Then it will be all hands on deck, chasing her down.

Her clothing is wet and heavy and the backpack is digging into her shoulders. At last, she can see a light through the trees. She is close to her hiding place now. So very close.

She slows down. Stops.

Her eyes search for the end of the path. A sudden creak in the forest.

Her heart jumps into her throat; her muscles lock in panic.

He emerges from between the trees and stops not far away from her. She doesn’t have a chance; there is nowhere to run. The terrain is rough, either side of the path overgrown.

Her disappointment is overwhelming. Her insides tighten into one big, hard knot.

It is impossible.

And still, it has happened.

And still, he is standing there.

Somewhere, a dog barks.

The alarm sounds.

The last thing she thinks of is a voice. A faded memory returning to her.

You will never, ever get out of here. Just so you know.

The blood pounds at her temples.

Flickering sparks shower onto the curtains of her eyelids.

Then come the violent waves of dizziness and everything begins to go black.

I let the bumblebee fly around in the small aquarium for a while. It tries to get out, buzzing angrily, but all it can do is bounce off the walls.

Then it gives up for a moment and lands on the cork mat at the bottom.

I lift the glass lid off, slowly and cautiously. I hold my breath as I lower my hand, which holds a pin. It only takes a millisecond, and then the bumblebee is stuck to the mat. It hums furiously, spinning on the pin in a crazy, futile dance. Its wings work frantically, but it goes nowhere. Then I lift the cork mat out of the aquarium, place it before me, and pick up the tweezers.

Lily looks at me, her mouth agape. She runs her tongue over her lower lip. I search for something in her eyes, fear or hatred, but all I find is a great emptiness, a dark abyss that sucks me in.

But first, the bumblebee.

I pull off the wings first, then the legs. Taking my time, lining them up on the table in front of her. The stupid bumblebee never stops buzzing, moving around on the pin, just a body now, as if it ever had a chance.

‘Why are you doing that?’ she asks.

‘Because it’s amusing,’ I say.

‘What? To watch it suffer?’

‘No, your face when you watch.’

I almost can’t breathe when I realize she’s trembling a bit.

That’s how it all begins. With a tiny bumblebee.